To drive infection from the dangerous year:
                    That the star-gazers, having writ on death,
                    May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.

                 'Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,
                 What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?
                 To sell myself I can be well contented,
                 So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;
                    Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips
                    Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.

                 'A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;
                 And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
                 What is ten hundred touches unto thee?
                 Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?
                    Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,
                    Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?'

                 'Fair queen,' quoth he, 'if any love you owe me,
                 Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:
                 Before I know myself, seek not to know me;
                 No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:
                    The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
                    Or being early pluck'd is sour to taste.

                 'Look! the world's comforter, with weary gait,
                 His day's hot task hath ended in the west;
                 The owl, night's herald, shrieks, 'tis very late;
                 The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,
                    And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light
                    Do summon us to part and bid good night.

                 'Now let me say good night, and so say you;
                 If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.'
                 'Good night,' quoth she; and ere he says adieu,
                 The honey fee of parting tender'd is:
                    Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;
                    Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face.

                 Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew
                 The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
                 Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
                 Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:
                    He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth,
                    Their lips together glu'd, fall to the earth.

                 Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,
                 And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;
                 Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
                 Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;
                    Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
                    That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry.

                 And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,
                 With blindfold fury she begins to forage;
                 Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
                 And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage;
                    Planting oblivion, beating reason back,
                    Forgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack.

                 Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,
                 Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much handling,
                 Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tir'd with chasing,
                 Or like the froward infant still'd with dandling,
                    He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,
                    While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

                 What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,
                 And yields at last to every light impression?
                 Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing,
                 Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:
                    Affection faints not like a pale-fac'd coward,
                    But then woos best when most his choice is froward.

                 When he did frown, O! had she then gave over,
                 Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd.
                 Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
                 What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd:
                    Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
                    Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.

                 For pity now she can no more detain him;
                 The poor fool prays her that he may depart:
                 She is resolv'd no longer to restrain him,
                 Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,
                    The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest,
                    He carries thence incaged in his breast.

                 'Sweet boy,' she says, 'this night I'll waste in sorrow,
                 For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
                 Tell me, Love's master, shall we meet to-morrow?
                 Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?'
                    He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends
                    To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

                 'The boar!' quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,
                 Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,
                 Usurps her cheeks, she trembles at his tale,
                 And on his neck her yoking arms she throws:
                    She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,
                    He on her belly falls, she on her back.

                 Now is she in the very lists of love,
                 Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:
                 All is imaginary she doth prove,
                 He will not manage her, although he mount her;
                    That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy,
                    To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.

                 Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes,
                 Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw,
                 Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
                 As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.
                    The warm effects which she in him finds missing,
                    She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.

                 But all in vain; good queen, it will not be:
                 She hath assay'd as much as may be prov'd;
                 Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee;
                 She 's Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd.
                    'Fie, fie!' he says, 'you crush me; let me go;
                    You have no reason to withhold me so.'

                 'Thou hadst been gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this,
                 But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
                 O! be advis'd; thou know'st not what it is
                 With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
                    Whose tushes never sheath'd he whetteth still,
                    Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

                 'On his bow-back he hath a battle set
                 Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
                 His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret;
                 His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
                    Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his way,
                    And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay.

                 'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,
                 Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
                 His short thick neck cannot be easily harrn'd;
                 Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:
                    The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
                    As fearful of him part, through whom he rushes.

                 'Alas! he nought esteems that face of thine,
                 To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes;
                 Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,
                 Whose full perfection all the world amazes;
                    But having thee at vantage, wondrous dread!
                    Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

                 'О! let him keep his loathsome cabin still;
                 Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:
                 Come not within his danger by thy will;
                 They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.
                    When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,
                    I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

                 'Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?
                 Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
                 Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright?
                 Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
                    My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
                    But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.

                 'For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
                 Doth call himself Affection's sentinel;
                 Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
                 And in a peaceful hour doth cry "Kill, kill!"
                    Distempering gentle Love in his desire,
                    As air and water do abate the fire.

                 This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,
                 This canker that eats up Love's tender spring,
                 This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,
                 That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
                    Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear
                    That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:

                 'And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
                 The picture of an angry-chafing boar,
                 Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
                 An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;
                    Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed
                    Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.

                 'What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,
                 That tremble at the imagination?
                 The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
                 And fear doth teach it divination:
                    I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
                    If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

                 'But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;
                 Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
                 Or at the fox which lives by subtilty,
                 Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
                    Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
                    And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.

                 'And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
                 Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
                 How he outruns the winds, and with what care
                 He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
                    The many musits through the which he goes
                    Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

                 'Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
                 To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
                 And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
                 To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
                    And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;
                    Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

                 'For there his smell with others being mingled,
                 The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
                 Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
                 With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
                    Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
                    As if another chase were in the skies.

                 'By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
                 Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
                 To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
                 Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
                    And now his grief may be compared well
                    To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

                 'Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
                 Turn, and return, indenting with the way,
                 Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
                 Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
                    For misery is trodden on by many,
                    And being low never reliev'd by any.

                 'Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
                 Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
                 To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
                 Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,
                    Applying this to that, and so to so;
                    For love can comment upon every woe.

                 'Where did I leave?' 'No matter where,' quoth he;
                 'Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:
                 The night is spent,' 'Why, what of that?' quoth she.
                 'I am,' quoth he, 'expected of my friends;
                    And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.'
                    'In night,' quoth she, 'desire sees best of all.'

                 'But if thou fall, O! then imagine this,
                 The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,
                 And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
                 Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips
                    Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
                    Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.

                 'Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:
                 Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,
                 Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,
                 For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;
                    Wherein she fram'd thee in high heaven's despite,
                    To shame the sun by day and her by night.

                 'And therefore hath she brib'd the Destinies,
                 To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
                 To mingle beauty with infirmities,
                 And pure perfection with impure defeature;
                    Making it subject to the tyranny
                    Of mad mischances and much misery;

                 'As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
                 Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,
                 The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
                 Disorder breeds by heating of the blood;
                    Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair,
                    Swear nature's death for framing thee so fair.

                 'And not the least of all these maladies
                 But in one minute's fight brings beauty under:
                 Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities,
                 Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,
                    Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,
                    As mountain-snow melts with the mid-day sun.

                 'Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
                 Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,
                 That on the earth would breed a scarcity
                 And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
                    Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night
                    Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.

                 'What is thy body but a swallowing grave,
                 Seeming to bury that posterity
                 Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
                 If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?
                    If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
                    Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

                 'So in thyself thyself art made away;
                 A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
                 Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
                 Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.
                    Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,
                    But gold that's put to use more gold begets.'

                 'Nay then,' quoth Adon, 'you will fall again
                 Into your idle over-handled theme;
                 The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
                 And all in vain you strive against the stream;
                    For by this black-fac'd night, desire's foul nurse,
                    Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

                 'If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
                 And every tongue more moving than your own.
                 Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs,
                 Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown;
                    For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
                    And will not let a false sound enter there;

                 'Lest the deceiving harmony should run
                 Into the quiet closure of my breast;
                 And then my little heart were quite undone,
                 In his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest.
                    No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
                    But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

                 'What have you urg'd that I cannot reprove?
                 The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger;
                 I hate not love, but your device in love,
                 That lends embracements unto every stranger.
                    You do it for increase: О strange excuse!
                    When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse.

                 'Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,
                 Since sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name;
                 Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
                 Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;
                    Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
                    As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

                 'Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
                 But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;
                 Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
                 Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done.
                    Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;
                    Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.

                 'More I could tell, but more I dare not say;
                 The text is old, the orator too green.
                 Therefore, in sadness, now I will away;
                 My face is full of shame, my heart of teen:
                    Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,
                    Do burn themselves for having so offended.'

                 With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace
                 Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
                 And homeward through the dark laund runs apace;
                 Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.
                    Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
                    So glides he in the night from Venus' eye;

                 Which after him she darts, as one on shore
                 Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,
                 Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
                 Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
                    So did the merciless and pitchy night
                    Fold in the object that did feed her sight.

                 Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware
                 Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,
                 Or 'stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,
                 Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood;
                    Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
                    Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

                 And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
                 That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
                 Make verbal repetition of her moans;
                 Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:
                    'Ay me!' she cries, and twenty times, 'Woe, woe!'
                    And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

                 She marking them, begins a wailing note,
                 And sings extemporally a woeful ditty;
                 How love makes young men thrall and old men dote;
                 How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:
                    Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
                    And still the choir of echoes answer so.

                 Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
                 For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:
                 If pleas'd themselves, others, they think, delight
                 In such like circumstance, with such like sport:
                    Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
                    End without audience, and are never done.

                 For who hath she to spend the night withal,
                 But idle sounds resembling parasites;
                 Like shrill-tongu'd tapsters answering every call,
                 Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?
                    She says, "Tis so:' they answer all, "Tis so;'
                    And would say after her, if she said 'No.'

                 Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
                 From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
                 And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
                 The sun ariseth in his majesty;
                    Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
                    That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.

                 Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow:
                 'O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
                 From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
                 The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
                    There lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother,
                    May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.'

                 This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
                 Musing the morning is so much o'erworn,
                 And yet she hears no tidings of her love;
                 She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:
                    Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
                    And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.

                 And as she runs, the bushes in the way
                 Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
                 Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:
                 She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
                    Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
                    Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.

                 By this she hears the hounds are at a bay;
                 Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
                 Wreath'd up in fatal folds just in his way,
                 The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;
                    Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
                    Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.

                 For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
                 But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
                 Because the cry remaineth in one place,
                 Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
                    Finding their enemy to be so curst,
                    They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.

                 This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
                 Through which it enters to surprise her heart;
                 Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
                 With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part;
                    Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
                    They basely fly and dare not stay the field.

                 Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy,
                 Till, cheering up her senses sore dismay'd,
                 She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
                 And childish error, that they are afraid;
                    Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:
                    And with that word she spied the hunted boar,

                 Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,
                 Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
                 A second fear through all her sinews spread,
                 Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
                    This way she runs, and now she will no further,
                    But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

                 A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
                 She treads the path that she untreads again;
                 Her more than haste is mated with delays,
                 Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
                    Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting,
                    In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

                 Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
                 And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
                 And there another licking of his wound,
                 'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;
                    And here she meets another sadly scowling,
                    To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

                 When he hath ceas'd his ill-resounding noise,
                 Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
                 Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
                 Another and another answer him,
                    Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
                    Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.

                 Look, how the world's poor people are amaz'd
                 At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,
                 Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gaz'd,
                 Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
                    So she at these sad sighs draws up her breath,
                    And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death.

                 'Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
                 Hateful divorce of love,' - thus chides she Death, -
                 'Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean
                 To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
                    Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set
                    Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?

                 'If he be dead, О no! it cannot be,
                 Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it;
                 О yes! it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
                 But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
                    Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart
                    Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart.

                 'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
                 And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
                 The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
                 They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower.
                    Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
                    And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.

                 'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping?
                 What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
                 Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
                 Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
                    Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
                    Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'

                 Here overcome, as one full of despair,
                 She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopp'd
                 The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
                 In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd;
                    But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
                    And with his strong course opens them again.

                 O! how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow;
                 Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;
                 Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,
                 Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry,
                    But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
                    Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

                 Variable passions throng her constant woe,
                 As striving who should best become her grief;
                 All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
                 That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
                    But none is best; then join they all together,
                    Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.

                 By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla;
                 A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well:
                 The dire imagination she did follow
                 This sound of hope doth labour to expel;
                    For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
                    And flatters her it is Adonis' voice.

                 Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
                 Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass;
                 Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
                 Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,
                    To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
                    Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.

                 О hard-believing love! how strange it seems
                 Not to believe, and yet too credulous;
                 Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
                 Despair and hope make thee ridiculous:
                    The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
                    In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

                 Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought,
                 Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
                 It was not she that call'd him all to naught,
                 Now she adds honours to his hateful name;
                    She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,
                    Imperious supreme of all mortal things.

                 'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest;
                 Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear
                 Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast,
                 Which knows no pity, but is still severe;
                    Then, gentle shadow, - truth I must confess, -
                    I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.

                 "Tis not my fault: the boar provok'd my tongue;
                 Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander;
                 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
                 I did but act, he 's author of my slander:
                    Grief hath two tongues: and never woman yet,
                    Could rule them both without ten women's wit."

                 Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
                 Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
                 And that his beauty may the better thrive,
                 With Death she humbly doth insinuate;
                    Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs; and stories
                    His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

                 'О Jove!' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I,
                 To be of such a weak and silly mind
                 To wail his death who lives and must not die
                 Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind;
                    For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
                    And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

                 'Fie, fie, fond love! thou art so full of fear
                 As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves;
                 Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,
                 Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'
                    Even at this word she hears a merry horn
                    Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.

                 As falcon to the lure, away she flies;
                 The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;
                 And in her haste unfortunately spies
                 The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;
                    Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,
                    Like stars asham'd of day, themselves withdrew:

                 Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
                 Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with pain,
                 And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,
                 Long after fearing to creep forth again;
                    So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
                    Into the deep dark cabins of her head:

                 Where they resign their office and their light
                 To the disposing of her troubled brain;
                 Who bids them still consort with ugly night.
                 And never wound the heart with looks again;
                    Who, like a king perplexed in his throne,
                    By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,

                 Whereat each tributary subject quakes;
                 As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,
                 Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,
                 Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound.
                    This mutiny each part doth so surprise
                    That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;

                 And, being open'd, threw unwilling light
                 Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd
                 In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white
                 With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd:
                    No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,
                    But stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed.

                 This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth,
                 Over one shoulder doth she hang her head,
                 Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
                 She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:
                    Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow,
                    Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.

                 Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,
                 That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;
                 And then she reprehends her mangling eye,
                 That makes more gashes where no breach should be:
                    His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;
                    For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

                 'My tongue cannot express my grief for one,
                 And yet,' quoth she, 'behold two Adons dead!
                 My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
                 Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead:
                    Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire!
                    So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

                 'Alas! poor world, what treasure hast thou lost?
                 What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
                 Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast
                 Of things long since, or anything ensuing?
                    The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;
                    But true-sweet beauty liv'd and died with him.

                 'Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!
                 Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:
                 Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;
                 The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you:
                    But when Adonis liv'd, sun and sharp air
                    Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:

                 'And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
                 Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;
                 The wind would blow it off, and, being gone,
                 Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep;
                    And straight, in pity of his tender years,
                    They both would strive who first should dry his tears.

                 'To see his face the lion walk'd along
                 Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
                 To recreate himself when he hath sung,
                 The tiger would be tame and gently hear him;
                    If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,
                    And never fright the silly lamb that day.

                 When he beheld his shadow in the brook,
                 The fishes spread on it their golden gills;
                 When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
                 That some would sing, some other in their bills
                    Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;
                    He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.

                 'But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
                 Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
                 Ne'er saw the beauteous liveiy that he wore;
                 Witness the entertainment that he gave:
                    If he did see his face, why then I know
                    He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.

                 "Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain:
                 He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
                 Who did not whet his teeth at him again,
                 But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;
                    And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
                    Sheath'd unaware the tusk in his soft groin.

                 'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
                 With kissing him I should have kill'd him first;
                 But he is dead, and never did he bless
                 My youth with his; the more am I accurst.'
                    With this she falleth in the place she stood,
                    And stains her face with his congealed blood.

                 She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
                 She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
                 She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
                 As if they heard the woeful words she told;
                    She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
                    Where, lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;

                 Two glasses where herself herself beheld
                 A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
                 Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
                 And every beauty robb'd of his effect:
                    'Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite,
                    That, you being dead, the day should yet be light.

                 'Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophesy,
                 Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:
                 It shall be waited on with jealousy,
                 Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end;
                    Ne'er settled equally, but high or low;
                    That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.

                 'It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud,
                 Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;
                 The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd
                 With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:
                    The strongest body shall it make most weak,
                    Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.

                 'It shall be sparing and too full of riot,
                 Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;
                 The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
                 Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;
                    It shall be raging mad, and silly mild,
                    Make the young old, the old become a child.

                 'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;
                 It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;
                 It shall be merciful, and too severe,
                 And most deceiving when it seems most just;
                    Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward,
                    Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

                 'It shall be cause of war and dire events,
                 And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;
                 Subject and servile to all discontents,
                 As dry combustious matter is to fire:
                    Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,
                    They that love best their love shall not enjoy.'

                 By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd
                 Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
                 And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,
                 A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white;
                    Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
                    Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood

                 She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
                 Comparing it to her Adonis' breath;
                 And says within her bosom it shall dwell,
                 Since he himself is reft from her by death:
                    She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
                    Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

                 'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy father's guise,
                 Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire
                 For every little grief to wet his eyes:
                 To grow unto himself was his desire,
                    And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good
                    To wither in my breast as in his blood.

                 'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;
                 Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
                 Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
                 My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
                    There shall not be one minute in an hour
                    Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'

                 Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
                 And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
                 Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies
                 In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;
                    Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
                    Means to immure herself and not be seen.


        КОММЕНТАРИЙ

     Едва  ли найдется человек, которому неизвестно выражение "шекспировский
накал   страстей".   За   этим   скрываются  кровавые  заговоры,  убийства и
трагическая  любовь,  известные  нам  по драмам великого Шекспира. Также нам
хорошо  известен  Шекспир  сонетов:  пронзительной  лирической  исповеди, не
теряющей своего очарования уже 400 лет. Но есть еще один, мало знакомый нам,
а  потому  вдвойне необычный Шекспир - автор поэмы "Венера и Адонис", поэмы,
которая  соединила  в  себе  накал драматических страстей, тонкую лиричность
сонетов,  чувственность  и  эротизм  античности  и философские размышления о
сущности любви.
     Случается,  причиной  появления  неординарного  произведения  искусства
становится не совсем благоприятное стечение обстоятельств. Так произошло и с
поэмой "Венера и Адонис". Она была написана в 1593 году, во время лондонской
чумы,  когда  театры были закрыты на карантин, и великий драматург, в момент
вынужденного  перерыва,  решил  поднять  свой  престиж  поэта  - ведь поэзия
считалась  тогда  выше  драмы.  Не случайно в посвящении своему покровителю,
графу Саутгемптону, Шекспир назвал поэму "первенцем своей фантазии".
     Поэма  имела  небывалый  по  тем  временам  успех. Она получила высокую
оценку  авторитетных  критиков  и выдержала шесть переизданий за 13 лет - ни
одна из пьес Шекспира не была столь популярна.
     В  чем  же  секрет?  Как  и  во  многих  своих  произведениях,  Шекспир
использует  заимствованный  сюжет. В данном случае он обращается к одному из
самых  известных  и востребованных сюжетов античной мифологии: истории любви
богини Венеры к земному юноше Адонису.
     Еще  в  античности  этот  сюжет  имел  много трактовок; до нас дошли по
меньшей  мере три. Общая сюжетная линия такова: богиня Венера, рассердившись
на  не почитавшую ее царскую дочь (будущую мать Адониса), внушила ей страсть
к родному отцу, который, ничего не подозревая, вступает в связь с дочерью, а
затем  проклинает  ее.  Боги  превратили  несчастную  в  мирровое дерево, из
ствола  которого родился мальчик удивительной красоты. Он стал спутником (по
некоторым  версиям  -  возлюбленным)  Венеры.  Разгневанная  Диана (Аполлон)
насылает на юношу дикого кабана, который его смертельно ранит. Венера горько
оплакивает Адониса и превращает его в цветок.
     Из крови Адониса вырастают розы, а из слез Венеры - анемоны.
     Из  всего  многообразия  сюжетных  линий  Шекспир  выбрал  только один,
овидиевский  мотив: Адонис не отвечает Венере взаимностью. Поэма практически
лишена  действия,  но  удерживает  внимание  своей красочностью, напряженной
эротичностью.  Однако  эта поэма - не о любви. В ней происходит столкновение
двух  жизненных  позиций,  двух  типов  эгоизма.  Венера,  ослепленная своей
страстью,  не  видит  в Адонисе живого человека. Всеми своими действиями она
оскорбляет  его  мужское самолюбие, делая невозможным сближение. Адонис же -
слишком  молод,  слишком  поглощен  юношескими  забавами.  Он не готов еще к
серьезным  чувствам,  а  любовь  в  виде  распаленной страстью Венеры скорее
отталкивает  его.  Возникает  вопрос:  а  есть  ли  вообще  любовь и что она
означает?
     Финал  поэмы  не ставит точку в столкновении Венеры и Адониса. Несмотря
на  смерть  героя,  их  спор  не  разрешается  чьим-либо  поражением. Адонис
отказывается  от  чувственной  любви  и  гибнет,  Венера проклинает любовь и
уходит от людей.
     Гений  Шекспира  скрыл  в  поэме  множество  смысловых  пластов. Каждый
открывающий ее находит наиболее близкий ему смысл, создает свой Текст и свое
прочтение поэмы.

     Стр.  19.  Буйнолюбивый  бегал  Битвобог...  -  Речь идет о Марсе, боге
войны,  в  античной  мифологии - любовнике (в некоторых интерпретациях муже)
Венеры.
     Стр.  23.  Нарцисс, да чмокнул пруд, и потонул... - Нарцисс в греческой
мифологии   -   юноша   необычайной  красоты,  наказанный  за  безразличие к
влюбленным в него женщинам. Влюбился в собственное отражение и умер от любви
к себе. По другой версии - утонул, стремясь слиться со своим отражением.
     Стр. 61. Игорь князь так обложил древлян... - Киевский князь Игорь, сын
Рюрика,  был известен своим корыстолюбием; в 944 году он предпринял поход на
племя  древлян  с  целью  увеличения  дани,  однако  предприятие закончилось
гибелью самого Игоря.
     Стр.  67.  И сух возле воды Тантала рот... - По греческому мифу, Тантал
был  осужден  за преступления против богов на вечные мучения: томясь жаждой,
он  стоит по горло в воде, но не может напиться; терзаемый голодом, не может
достать  плодов,  окружающих его; над его головой нависает скала, ежеминутно
грозящая упасть.
     Стр.  105.  И Пенелопа распускает ткань... - Речь идет о Пенелопе, жене
Одиссея,  ожидающей  возвращения  своего  мужа.  Пообещав своим женихам, что
выберет  себе  мужа после того, как соткет погребальное покрывало для своего
тестя,   она  по  ночам  распускала  сотканное  за  день,  чтобы  работа  не
продвигалась.
     Стр.  123.  Свой  путь  держа  на  островок Пафос. - В городе Пафос, на
острове  Крит,  находился  храм  Афродиты  (Венеры),  наиболее  почитаемый в
Греции.

                                                               М. Мельникова